There’s the brief moment of Stephen going very quiet and motionless as she settles in his lap — even now some part of him still needing to grow accustomed to this, to such casual touch, to being this possessive with each other — before he readjusts the tilt of his knees to make it more comfortable for her.

Those seven barely-related thoughts make it out after all, leaving him perplexed as he tries furiously to keep up. (Who’s Casimir? Why is Coupe coming up— ah, that’s the aunt, somehow Gwenaëlle had never actually mentioned her name. What miracle?)

But he lets it happen and simply goes with it, the way you might meditatively float along in a current, letting it carry you wherever it will. Stephen reaches down, brushes a few unruly locks out of Gwenaëlle’s face and out of the way. He considers which metaphorical string to pull on out of all that tangled mess, lost without context. In the end, he chooses this one, the name delicate like handling spun silk, having heard how it must matter to her:

“Who’s Casimir?”